


Snakes Are Not Soft

by D20Owlbear, hollow-head (laideur)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Banter, Canon-Typical Drinking, Cold Open except make it the scenes that weren't even near it, Cold open wishes it could be this diverse, Crowley is bad at comforting humans lbr, Inspired by Art, M/M, but also very muscle, but anyway crowley's definitely a big scary brave demon..., by hollow-head!!, canon-typical egging on of both angelic and demonic persons, except when he's not, for a Reverse Big Bang, have y'all ever held a snake their bellies are sooooft, or drunk, or startled, or verklempt, or weepy, or-, snakes are not soft except when they are
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28903536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear, https://archiveofourown.org/users/laideur/pseuds/hollow-head
Summary: 5+1 through the ages.Five times Crowley wasn't in control of his snake form, and One time he slipped into it happily.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 93
Kudos: 111
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	1. Manslaughter, What's It Good For?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to hollow-head who was very patient with my incessant questions! And her lovely artwork! 
> 
> The art is absolutely the star of the show here and is the inspiration of the story in general, I am but a humble peddler of words! Please check her out on her twitter, tumblr, and patreon!!
> 
> -5. Left of Eden, 3,975 BC

There were quite a lot of things going on in the world. Crawly didn't like half of them. To be fair to Crawly, only half of those things were about asking too many questions to entities who wouldn't answer them, then muscling your way into knowing what the fuss was all about anyway. 

The other half was a very upset young man running away from home. 

Well. Not really. 

God threw him out. Sort of. It was all a bit confusing. 

"So let me get this straight," Crawly grumbled loudly, sitting on the edge of Cain's bed and crunching obnoxiously on an apple, "Your brother went and gave up some animal lives to Her, burnt it so bad you couldn't eat it, and you settled in and made a grains and fruit board and She didn't even like it? 

"Downright rude! Top dollar charcuterie board right there!" Crawly bit into his apple again, louder and grumblier. Cain just stared morosely at his pack before sighing and setting aside a shirt that didn't really fit him all that well in the first place. 

"She cursed me," It was the first thing Cain had said to Crawly all day, so he sat up straight to really put some thought and effort into a reply. 

"Join the club." Wait, _shit_ , no that's not what he meant to say! 

Cain cried a bit about that, which Crawly thought was probably a bit much after being invited to join a rather exclusive and discerning club, members of exactly two now, and he awkwardly patted at Cain's shoulder. The only thing worse than a crying human was a crying human trying to– 

Oh, yep, there it was. Hiccups were the worst and made you sound all funny. Crawly hated hiccups. 

"It's… It's alright…" Crawly tried, and shushed the man with noises that used to calm him when he'd been a proper child instead of a young man. 

"I've got to go," Cain said, "I've got to go and leave and never come back, because that's what God said." 

Crawly thought that was a bit unfair too, considering manslaughter had only just been invented and no one really knew about killing things without meaning to, much less people. Much less knowing anything about them not being recorporated… But then again, She wasn't really known for being very forgiving, first offence or not.

Standing, Crawly dusted off his robes and grabbed a handful of things that seemed useful or otherwise memorable and conjured up a rough sack to toss it all into. Clothes, some of the fruits of Cain's labor in the fields, even a handful of toys Crawly had carved for the kids when they were younger. Cain looked over morosely at times and sighed loudly about the fact that Crawly's sack never seemed to fill or grow heavier, but didn't say anything about it. 

"You can't go with me, yanno?" Cain muttered. Crawly just scoffed a _pshaw_ noise and flapped his hand.

"Who says?" He grinned, even though it felt a bit wrong-footed. Well, Crawly was a human-shape just as much as he was a snake-shape in truth (which is to say, not at all, since he was always a demon-shaped-into-another-mold) so any foot may have been a wrong foot. So just another Tuesday, other than the whole manslaughter business… 

Cain only glared at him sullenly, eyes rimmed red for a loss he couldn't fully comprehend, having only seen food-animals and occasionally pets go the way Abel did. Crawly held back a wince, yeah, that was gonna _smart_ later, once it set in.

"Alright, come on then." Crawly shrugged the endless sack onto his shoulder and lazily sauntered towards the door. Cain followed after him shortly, miserably shuffling along behind Crawly. Now, he may have been a snake as much as he was a human, which was to say he wasn't at all except in metaphysical packaging all tied up with string because in actuality he was a demon who happened to shapeshift, but Crawly wasn't a _monster_. He wasn't going to let Cain go off on his lonesome. That'd just be mean.

Crawly led, and Cain followed, and occasionally they stopped for a brief little pity party (which was wholly deserved, probably, thought Crawly). Eventually though, they got to the The Desert proper. It didn't really have a name, just The Desert, and Crawly was only passingly familiar with it. He knew oases existed, and there was that one big fuck-off river right through the Eastern portion of it…

"So Cain, kiddo, Cainderino…" Crawly ignored the glare Cain shot him, he wasn't intimidating even if he was twice the size of Crawly with a laborer's build, he was still crying a bit and that was just a little sad, not intimidating, so nicknames it was! "Do you know where you're going?"

Cain stopped suddenly and Crawly took a few seconds to realize that Cain wasn't by his side anymore before pausing in his own stride to pivot and watch as Cain breathed in slowly, his face darker with the sun and probably a bit of anger, but he reined it in with a few long breaths. 

"You mean to tell me, Crawly," Cain muttered, resuming his pace from before, "That I've been following you and you have been _following me?!_ " Crawly thought about it for a second before nodding.

"Yep. Feels right." And just as Cain looked like he was ready to scream to the high heavens his frustrations, a light appeared and a booming voice shook Crawly to the core. He paled, even more than he was normally, and stood still until suddenly he wasn't standing at all and was, instead, coiled up as a somewhat medium-sized snake and able to hide underneath Cain's robes between his feet with just a bit of his head poking out to flicker his tongue at God. 

"Don't move. She can't see us if we don't move." Crawly hissed, and trembled beneath Cain's robes as if he could hide from the all-seeing.

"Where is your brother Abel?” A surprisingly soothing voice rang out, clear and loud in the expanse of the miles of circles they had covered already.

" _Fuck!_ " Crawly whispered, hissing. He hisspered. 

“I don’t know,” Cain replied with a great, big frown. “ _Am I_ my brother’s keeper?”

"Oh you ballsy little shit," Crawly crowed happily, still sinking to the ground in the Lord's presence, even if She hadn't deigned to acknowledge him.

The Lord did not reply for quite a while, and the wind blew until it sounded like a moan of pain. Cain trembled just as surely as Crawly did.

"What have you done? Listen!" She commanded, and they could not close their ears to the sound of the wind crying out, beseeching the Lord. " Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground. Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand. When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.”

"That's worse, I hate walking! I am no hunter, I am a farmer, I am the first born to it!" Cain shouted because, as Crawly had mentioned, he was a very ballsy little shit indeed. The winds did pick up a bit so he backed down, "I– I mean, My Lord my punishment is more than I can bear. Today you are driving me from the land, and I will be hidden from your presence; I will be a restless wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me.”

"Oh yeah," Crawly hissed comfortingly, and wrapped around Cain's ankle, "That'sss a good point…"

But the Lord said to him, “Not so; anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over.” Crawly gasped at the commandment and then again when it became clear the Lord was making an amulet. The kind of thing that used to be given in Heaven before everything had Fallen apart like it did. It was written with firmament and coalesced before Cain's face, Her writings made physical and then marked upon Cain. 

Cain shouted, Crawly hissed louder than normal, She said something really loud too, and then everything calmed down and Crawly was still an unsmote snake.

"Well… shit."

**Genesis 4:9-15


	2. I've Got A Lovely Bunch of Loaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -4. Outside of Ur, Babylon Empire, 3,253 BC

"Did you send that man out to me, Crawly?" Aziraphale asked, sitting in his tavern, drinking the beer he'd brewed. "Er– sorry, Siduri right now, isn't it?"

"Yeah, 's is." Crawly hissed lazily. There were no patrons here, there rarely were in fact. And his tavern was far closer to a home than a true inn. He'd been called Siduri for a while now, here on the outskirts of Ur. He and his inn had hosted so many travelers by the riverside which led to the sea not too far away. 

They'd called him all sorts of things, and it was far easier to go by their feminine name than to explain he was a genderless, sexless creature. All in all, Crawly didn't find it _upsetting_ to be called a woman, to be thought of as like Eve —Eve was truly a woman after his own heart— but he was closer to Adam in form and those early on pronouns had always seemed to fit alright too. So, privately, Crawly tended to default to what he'd been called the longest, even if presenting and living as and being a woman worked just as well. He'd answer to whatever he was called by others happily enough.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, always seemed so solidly _male_ , a masculinity that wasn't hampered by his minor forays into things considered feminine occasionally, such as having the nails on his hands and feet tended to even though his fingers were strong and covered in calluses for boat-building. Some big project neither of them could suss out, helping that Noah fellow figure out how to build a boat or something like that. Noah was a secretive sort of guy, but his kids were alright, halfway to grown and looking to get wives of their own, though thankfully they'd all deemed Siduri too independent for interest outside of his beer. 

"What man?" Crawly sighed and drank from his cup as he leaned heavily on the other side of the bar. The bread was almost done and he'd brought in some oil and olives and cheese to eat it with, so as soon as he sat down he just _knew_ it'd be time to take it out. 

"Gilgamesh, Cra– Siduri, do keep up." Aziraphale sniffed and sipped daintily at his drink like the two of them weren't most of the way to utterly soused and hadn't been drinking all day at this point. 

"Well, _Urshanabi_ ," Crawly mocked, friendly like of course, but he was still a demon, had to get his kicks where he could, "He wanted to cross the ocean, 'f course I sent him to you."

Aziraphale snorted into his cup but sent Crawly a wry smile. "You know, I've got no idea where they got that name from. But he _did_ destroy one of the boats I'd made you know, rather rude of him. Though… I suppose I was rude first, told him he looked like he needed a nap. Poor boy absolutely did though, did you even feed him, Siduri?"

Crawly gasped and held his hand to his chest, clutching at the simple shawl wrap he wore that was in fashion with wealthy women in Babylon. "Course I fed him! Well… I tried to, you met him. Said he's the king or something like that, like it means he's not human or anything anymore. Poor bastard didn't even stay to sleep or drink, looked like he needed it too. Sommat about bein' scared of death." Crawly shrugged, not much he could do about that.

"Ah, yes, he spoke of all that with me too, why I lent him the boat I suppose. Though he returned it in such a _terrible_ condition I told him to leave and never return, really, imagine if he'd been after my tablets!"

Crawly snickered and moved to sit down before suddenly remembering the bread and cursing under his breath. He stumbled on his way to the clay oven just inside his kitchen, and nearly forgot to take the bread out with a paddle instead of his hand, but it all worked out alright. Sure he forgot a plate, but it wasn't so hot he couldn't carry the bread ten feet to the bar. 

Finally, he sat beside Aziraphale at the bar and handed over the knife for Aziraphale to do the honors and fiddled with his own cup, draining it and pouring more beer into it. He fiddled with his cup and watched as Aziraphale partitioned out the bread, dipping it into the oil on the plate between them with a bit of salt and pepper, humming happily as he drank. Crowley watched. He always watched; that's what snakes did right? They watched and laid in wait and all that jazz, and whenever he was watched back, Crawly broke a bit of the bread and shoved it in his mouth and didn't bother to chew before swallowing, grinning at Aziraphale's disgusted look.

"You know…" Crawly muttered, keeping his voice light and unaffected, "that King Gilgamesh passed back this way after you scared him off. Even all beaten down and scared of death as he was, he was hoity-toity and boastful, described wrestling that damn Crimean bull or whatever twice you know, to me…"

Aziraphale nodded and sighed heavily, "Yes, he was… oh how to put it delicately–"

Crawly snorted, "Oh no, indelicacy in _this_ house of perdition? Say it ain't so."

"Alright you fiend, I'll be crass but only because you've got lovely loaves." Aziraphale took another pointed bite of his piece of bread, chewy center dripping with the rich, fatty olive oil. "He was cocky, boastful and arrogant to boot. I don't know _how_ you kept your patience with that man, why I nearly lost mine! And, well, your kind isn't known for keeping your temper in check…"

"My kind maybe," Crawly shrugged, drained his cup, and poured another for the both of them to top them up. "But I'm a bit more sloth-y, yanno? Too much energy to be properly wrathful at the drop of the hat, leave that to the youngin's."

"Ah yes, they do tend to be a bit more… uppity."

"Oi! I can be uppity! I'll up _your_ tea, damned if I don't!"

Aziraphale laughed and drank his beer, and Crawly hid his smile behind his cup. They were well into the second pitcher by this point and Crawly certainly wasn't the type to make drinks low on the alcohol scale.

"Yanno?" Crawly asked once they'd settled down again and ate their bread and drank their beer until he had to refill the pitcher a third time. 

"I know?" Aziraphale asked, endlessly patient.

"Was gonna ask, how'd ya do it?"

"Do what?"

"Scare off king arrogance there."

"Oh, simple really," Aziraphale said, his cheeks turned a little pink at the edges and he looked rather bashful all in all, which only made Crawly all the more intrigued.

"Simple?!" Crawly crowed, already laughing at the possibilities, "What did you pick up the whole barge and shake him loose? Wrestle him into submission? Don't think I don't remember you lost that once to Jacob! Tell me you won, no loose pebble to make you lose this time!"

"Oh and that was _your_ fault, you beast! You can't hang that over my own head when you've caused it!"

"I can exactly do that and I will, angel. Thwarted that wil– er, blessing, was it a blessing?"

"Oh yes, I think so, it was meant to be and ended up giving him a new name, if I recall." Aziraphale hummed to himself in thought, before shaking his head. "But, that's not what we were talking about, _no_ I didn't shake Gilgamesh loose, he was rather loose already after his ordeal I should think but…"

Crawly leaned closer, his chin in his hand and elbow nearly in the plate of oil, grinning for Ur at how Aziraphale hemmed and hawed in his embarrassment. "What, ya lose your temper?"

"So what if I did!" Aziraphale shouted, and crossed his arms to pout a little at the fun Crawly poked at him. "I just let my form slip, you know? Oh, you _have_ to stop teasing me, Cra– Siduri, it's rather rude of you! I couldn't help it, he ruined all our work on the boat and now what am I meant to be giving to Noah for the base of his?"

Crawly only guffawed loudly and nearly choked on his beer after trying to drink some more before he was quite ready to be done laughing. 

"Slipped?" Crawly snickered, barely bothering to hide it, "Really, you went all _Do Not Be Afraid_ on dumb kid? And he thought it was _scary_?"

Aziraphale sniffed and floundered for the pitcher to pour himself some more beer, which took a few moments in his inebriation but he got it in the end. " _Yes,_ Siduri, I'll have you know that I _am_ still one of the Host, and a fierce warrior of God. Be not afraid is the standard greeting, predominantly from _me_ as one of the main liaisons from Heaven, for a reason."

Crawly snorted again, ruder this time. "Sure, yeah, 'lright. You show me yours, I'll show you mine, hm?"

Aziraphale blinked slowly for a few minutes only to reply with a dumb, "Huh?"

"S'not hard, angel. You slip outta that corporation, I do the same. C'mon, otherwise I'll report back to Hell you've got a bald spot on your true form. Laughing stock for centuries, they'll make you." Aziraphale sighed heavily, but was easily swayed in his drunkenness by Crawly's teasing. 

"Alright! Alright, _fine_ ," Aziraphale grumbled, but a smile pulled at the corner of his lips and he stood up off the barstool, flexed his hands and held them out like he was performing a trick. Crawly rolled his eyes but watched unblinking until the light grew and grew too bright for him to be able to see anything at all.

Dread crept up Crawly's spine and he couldn't help how his corporation broke out into a cold sweat, all the dormant instincts hardwired into human bodies (whether or not it was piloted by a human soul, there were simply some things baked into the blueprints) surfaced and the hairs on the back of his neck rose, his breathing became short and quick as he tried to shove himself against the bar for something, _anything_ at his back that was not this terrifying creature.

Objectively, Crawly _knew_ the Aziraphale before him was a great stellated dodecahedron, iridescent as a pearl rainbow, surrounded by ever-turning wheels that might have been drawn by Escher as an optical illusion. Every time he looked away, something new changed and swirled and the miasma of the fusion of the stars burned at the core of him, surrounded by eyes fluttering and _searching_. Unobjectively, Aziraphale was frightening in ways Crawly couldn't force himself to comprehend, it drilled into his skull through his unblinking eyes and plucked at all the scales that covered his body, ripped through his tongue until it was forked and he was holding on by the skin of his teeth to remain as he meant to in human-esque form.

Inwardly, the dread in Crawly's spine spilled over into his guts, gripping them with icy fingers until his heart stopped beating and his lungs no longer moved for the sheer, unadulterated fear that held him. Outwardly, Crawly meeped. He yelped and fell to the floor and his shawl loosened around his form until it fell off entirely, catching between his heel and the ground as he scrambled back and _away_. 

**Crawly,** the booming voice that pounded in Crawly's skull and set the viscera of his eyeballs and grey-matter vibrating in the stead of a heartbeat he'd stopped from his fear. **Crawly, do not– my dear girl, really now? I didn't go through all this trouble for you to–**

The terrifying creature sighed loudly, just as poundingly booming as before, as Crawly couldn't stop his frightened transformation into a small serpent to dive through the cracks of the floor and burrow under as may layers of earth as he could manage, to flee the piercing, too-knowing sight of the angel.

**Crawly, you fool! Get back here this instant, I won't be drinking this alone, do you hear me? Come back or– or, I'll eat all your bread!**

Weeks later, Crawly blushed heavily when the implication of nudity hit him, and he nearly fainted in front of the ovens at the thought of having seen Aziraphale… so clearly.


	3. Candlelight Vigils With No Candles Invited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -3. Golgotha, Jerusalem, Israel 33 AD
> 
> Thank you so much to sodium_azide who beta'd for me on this chapter and all the previous ones!

"Crowley," Aziraphale sighed,"Not right now I– I can't leave." Aziraphale's voice cracked and he slumped down to sit on a low rock, conveniently shaped vaguely like a seat, and bowed his head as if he were praying. Maybe he was, Crowley didn't know, it was all whatever to him, or at least he'd have liked it to be.

"Wasn't gonna steal you away, angel," Crowley scoffed and shuffled just a little closer. He turned his head and glanced over at the skull in the hill, which could only barely be seen from their vantage point. He stuck his tongue out at it, wriggling it like a snake. Crowley hadn't ever before regretted the words "it seems thematically appropriate" until pointing out Golgotha to a passing centurion (who had turned out to be unfortunately high-ranking) some years ago.

Crowley didn't sit. He had too much energy in his limbs and felt like he'd vibrate out of his skin any second now. Instead, he paced and he flicked his tongue out, far thinner than a human's might be and forked at the end. It was something to do, the smells didn't change much unless the wind adjusted, but there was something comforting in cataloging the many familiar scents of the Earth beneath his feet. And, of course, the smell of the only angel he can remember ever liking is a grounding thing as well.

The sun was setting and from Yeshua's tomb emerged Yosef of Arimathea —from whom Crowley could smell a blessing burning into the whole of the man that was clearly from Aziraphale— Mary of Magdala, and Yeshua's poor mother Mary of Nazareth. The women were crying, as was to be expected, and Yosef was stone-faced.

Aziraphale stood and moved to the entrance of the tomb, exchanging soft words with the three of them, and Crowley stood still in the middle of the trail only a few yards away to watch with wary eyes. He'd never gotten better at making crying humans feel better. Even after 4,000 years it still tripped him up. But he welcomed Mary of Nazareth into his embrace where she wept and, after a moment, opened an arm out to Mary of Magdala who seemed to need the comfort too, whatever he could manage to scrounge up for her.

Over their heads, Crowley watched Yosef and Aziraphale easily roll the stone into place, a feat that ought to have taken at least three men to do so laboriously, as it was great and weighty, but Aziraphale was an angel of the Lord and could not be deterred by something as inconsequential as mere gravity. Yosef, lost in his grief, didn't seem to notice the ease with which they entombed Yeshua and collected the women from Crowley's arms.

"Peace," Aziraphale said softly, his hands alighting on both Mary's shoulders, "He will not be alone." The three humans seemed to take comfort in that, or perhaps it was simply an angel's grace and presence which helped, Crowley couldn't tell. Not when he was feeling a little better about it too now.

The humans turned and walked away from the cave the young man was buried in, leaving an angel and a demon to their vigil. It wasn't that they had to, but Yeshua had been at least something like a friend to the both of them. Aziraphale had, actually, spent less time with the man by the end of it all, and Crowley… well he hadn't quite been able to shake the desperate awe when the boy went and saw all the kingdoms of the world and been moved by the way people were always, simply, _people_.

"You know," Crowley said, trying for jocular and falling a little short, "He cried about a butterfly, in Iximche. A little girl and her littler brother were chasing it, and laughing."

Aziraphale laughed, a little watery and despondent, but a laugh nonetheless. "One time, Yeshua scared a donkey."

"Oh?" Crowley shooed Aziraphale back to his stone seat and wriggled with his hands on his hips, pleased enough to look silly as long as it made the lines at the edges of Aziraphale's eyes crinkle with a little bit of joy eked out of the world.

"Oh yes." Aziraphale's lips twitched into a small, fond smile as he stared at the tomb with sad eyes, "He used to sneak up on the poor thing and once managed it while the beast was asleep, smacked it on the nose, and nearly got a face full of donkey-teeth for his trouble. Fell over and screamed before laughing at the worried faces his parents were making."

Crowley huffed a laugh at the idea of Yeshua being a bit of a shit as a kid, all his favorites tended to be. Most of 'em liked questions, wanted to know more, to see more, but _all_ of the humans he'd met and liked were just a little bit of a shit in their earliest years.

They told a few stories back and forth, and at some point date wine showed up, the kind they remembered being most prominent in Babylon. It wasn't clear who'd conjured it up, but they drank of it anyway, passing the jug back and forth. It was the best way, Crowley thought, to remember the humans they liked as they'd been rather than as dead and gone (regardless of what prophecies stated). So this drinking and reminiscing and trading stories of who Yeshua was as a child and a man and as a person as a whole was… nice.

The sun sank well below the horizon and the stars shone brightly in the sky, even the moon seemed to glow in full force to filter through the wispy leaves of the river gum tree they sat beneath. It almost didn't feel proper for mourning, or their vigil, but if Crowley had learnt anything at all, it was that there wasn't a proper way or place to do much in the first place. Things happened and dates fell and the skies bandied about between bleak and sunny all over the world at their own whims rather than those of mortals, so it was best to simply… let things fall as they would and handle it when it did.

But then, as the moon rose to its full height, somewhere in the middle of the night, a small procession lit by oil lamps came slowly towards them. Crowley roused and stood, tapping Aziraphale's shoulder to make sure he was aware. The closer they came, the clearer it was that it was a small guard of praetor and what looked like two laborers.

"Hullo there, officers, nice night we're having." Crowley greeted with a charming smile and he stepped forward closer to the group. One of the praetor closest to him blinked in mild confusion at his genial salutation.

"Hullo, miss," the one at the head of the group replied, looking back over his shoulder with pursed lips to make eye contact with another. The rest of the group stepped forward to go around them, right to the tomb. Crowley narrowed his eyes and only just stopped a hiss from leaving his lips.

"What are you doing?" He asked softly, inquisitively, careful to keep the tenor of stress out of his voice, it would only cause trouble. Not for him, perhaps, but for any others the man met and thought they were the same as Crowley.

The guard shrugged nonchalantly and turned to only half face her, angling towards the large stone before Yeshua's tomb. "Only carrying out our orders, miss."

"And what would those be?" Aziraphale demanded from his seat on the stone by the side of the small road to the hewn, limestone cave. Crowley winced at the sharp look the praetorian shot over Crowley's shoulder at Aziraphale, and he prayed internally that Aziraphale wouldn't start trouble. Not right now, not so soon, when it was obvious that these men were in the employ of Pilate.

"Nothing that concerns you, _Samaritan_." The praetorian replied gruffly, and Crowley put his hands up and smiled disarmingly.

"Aah, no need to bring citizenship into this, hm?" Crowley said soothingly, even if it hadn't been true at all. It was _always_ about citizenship with these folk. "We're just curious, is all, there was a lot of hullabaloo earlier today about this one." Crowley jerked his head towards the tomb and grimaced as the guard frowned heavily.

"Can't say I believe it much myself," The praetorian, who Crowley had secretly begun to call Caeso in his head because of his sharp face, spoke slowly as if all his words were measured and weighed before speaking. He was someone Crowley might normally try to tempt into something, just to see if he could. "But orders are orders. We're here to seal the tomb of a dead man, nothing that would be a problem… _would it_?"

Caeso's tone took a sharp turn for the suspicious and Crowley's hackles rose a bit beneath his simlāh at the surprisingly bold declaration. He was a praetor though, so perhaps it oughtn't be surprising. Crowley pulled himself up to his full height and watched the guard unblinkingly.

"Crowley," Aziraphale's voice carried sotto on a nonexistent breeze, " _look_ at what they're doing." So, Crowley looked. His head whipped over to the stone at the entrance and the laborers were packing mudbrick —loam, mud, sand and water mixed up with straw chaff— at the crevices and coating it smooth with loam. Crowley had looked just in time to watch them place Pontius Pilate's seal on the tomb and something like wrath churned in Crowley's gut like a crucible.

He didn't hear what Aziraphale said, only that he was angry about it, something about letting dead men be at peace. But Crowley _did_ notice how Caeso stepped forward, shoulders back and chest prominent, his full height plenty to intimidate some average Samaritan, especially as Aziraphale hadn't stood up at all in his anger. If, of course, that's what they actually were.

The rest of the praetor and the laborers returned to Caeso's side, easily deferring to him and even placing their hands on their weapons as if to draw them. And that was just… unacceptable.

Crowley stepped between Aziraphale and the guards, intent on keeping him safe from harm, should things escalate. But it seemed that by the very act of moving at all, Crowley had introduced just a little too much uncertainty to the tension, and one of the guards drew their gladius in full; one of the others angled their spear off the ground, just enough to be mobile should a fight break out.

And that, absolutely, was the point at which Crowley had decided to be done.

He opened his mouth and let the fangs grow in, then kept growing them. Scales rippled violently outward from his spine across his entire body, encasing him in ungodly black scales. His limbs and spine grew until he was towering over the guards, and his fingers became long and clawed.

Crowley's hair and the hem of his simlāh was thrown and batted about wildly like untethered sails in unseen wind. His fangs still grew until they crowded his whole mouth and dripped with black, oily venom. Crowley flicked his tongue out with a rattling hiss, the kind of noise hundreds of snakes scraping through the caverns in the dry desert might make altogether.

There was a pause, a deep breath of a second where he watched the eyes of the guards widen as the reality settled in their minds and the threat inherent to it took hold.

"Go." Crowley commanded, his voice still that of scraping snakes and echoing in their heads until it filled them with a dread humans can only experience when confronted with the supernatural. Their faces paled satisfyingly as they stepped back and scrambled away, too stricken with fear to properly shout until they were halfway down the trail.

Once they were properly off, Crowley settled back down into a more human shape and did not look at Aziraphale.

"C– Crowley, really, it was alright–"

"Yeah well, maybe they shouldn't'a interrupted a vigil for a beloved dead man." Crowley grumbled and still did not turn to face Aziraphale.

Aziraphale made a dithering noise and Crowley could hear the rustle of the fabric scraping over stone as he stood. "Thank you, my dear. It would have been inconvenient to be chased off."

Crowley shrugged nonchalantly and did _not_ yelp loudly when Aziraphale's hand gripped tightly, comfortingly, at his shoulder. Nor did he lean into it, of course, he's a demon. He didn't need comfort… probably.

"Yeah, 'sss alright," Crowley mumbled and blinked until his eyes finally receded into more normal human-iris-size and didn't overtake the whole of his sclera, "Woulda been a pain, 'sss all."

"Of course, my dear," Aziraphale murmured back and squeezed his shoulder again, and absolutely didn't mention at all that he was supporting a large portion of Crowley's weight with his hand, and then with a portion of his chest, as Crowley shamelessly leaned in to steal his body heat.

"Ssstill got that wine?"

"It never left."


	4. Tail End of the Great Nappening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -2. Mayfair, London, England 1890 
> 
> Special thanks to Sodium Azide, my beta on this, and also cassieoh who was immeasurably helpful in kicking my butt to get this done!

"Oh, Crowley! You wily creature, you! I ended up at another flat entirely! You still haven't told me what that blasted A or J stand for!" Aziraphale stepped inside Crowley's rooms, his curled rattan cane still held loosely in his hand and his hat firmly on his head because, if nothing else, Crowley _despised_ manners. Ignoring propriety was only the impolite thing to do.

It wasn't very lived in, and looked right out of a daguerreotype of a wealthy young man on his own. Aziraphale supposed that's what Crowley was, essentially. Even though he wasn't young, nor a man, nor technically wealthy so much as he was able to pretend to be all of those things at no detriment to himself. As far as Aziraphale knew, much like Heaven did for himself, Hell outfitted Crowley with a cash stipend for work expenses. 

"It did turn out better than I might have hoped. I met this lovely Arthur Raffles fellow. I knocked on his door first thinking he was you, had the AJ and everything. Her-forbid anyone in this dreadful cinder-block of a building label it with their surname. Are you simply meant to know a person’s given name?” Aziraphale had been utterly delighted when he was offered an invitation to Raffles' next cricket game with an assurance it was only amateur fun! How delightful humans were!

Aziraphale has made it through the entryway and thought again about removing his hat, but sighed and left it as it was. Crowley had been awfully upset last time they'd spoken… Aziraphale supposed that would teach _him_ , to insult how Crowley drove, no matter that Bertha had gifted him a no.3 Motorwagen a year ago. Hopefully he grew out of the propensity for those personal combustion engines. Aziraphale left his hat on in hopes he'd engender at least some sort of goodwill.

"I miss the days, sometimes, when everyone only had one name! Nothing fancy, just Daniel or Solomon or even Tzipporah! Tzipporah was a good name…. Lovely girl really, did you ever meet her Crowley?" Aziraphale babbled on as he explored, his shoes tapping in the stillness of the rooms, until he found Crowley's bedroom. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose around the delightful little bifocals he'd acquired not too long ago. As much as Crowley might tease him for it, Aziraphale found he liked the bifocals quite a bit. Nothing compared to his half-moons, of course, for curating that gentle professorial look he so tried for these days, but it did suit his outfit today better, which was a bit more jocular and brightly striped than he usually attempted.

"Crowley, _really._ You're asleep? And dare I ask if you've been asleep this whole time?” Aziraphale lowered his voice just a little out of polite habit, before remembering that he was here to wake the ol' chap up if he was _actually_ asleep. But, Aziraphale faltered at the doorway to the private space. The room was filled with the still feeling that only comes with the occupants are dead asleep, the kind of charged what-will-you-do atmosphere only the awake and living can stand in. He walked in and steeled himself against any thoughts of intrusion. That's why he was here, after all. 

“Is this why you missed Eliza's débutante ball back in '34? I thought perhaps you'd just not come since she'd had her eye on you… but _really_ , this truly is excessive." Aziraphale approached the side of the bed and slowed to a stop, then pursed his lips and tapped the rounded handle of his cane to his jaw as he thought. 

The bed itself was a masterpiece. Aziraphale could tell the beautiful craftsmanship that went into the hand-carved headboard and the matching foot. Dark wood that looked nearly black in the dark of the room, but shined with well-kept polish, it was carved so intricately that for a few seconds Aziraphale worried about breaking it even though he had no intention to touch it at all. Delicate things always engendered that feeling in Aziraphale, that he'd break it without realizing how roughly he treated it, that he'd shove too hard or would take it for granted and hurt it somehow. 

Aziraphale turned his mind to the sheets instead, thin and clearly of a high thread count, fit for a king with no exaggeration. They weren't so dark as to be black, but an impressively dark mauve, so Crowley must have bought them rather than conjured them. It seemed frivolous, not that demons weren't encouraged to be, Aziraphale supposed, but to go out and purchase such things when even his wardrobe was typically materialized out of ether and thought.

He frowned heavily and sighed under his breath when the bed turned out to be empty. Aziraphale pushed away the thought about why he'd wanted to catch a glimpse of Crowley sleeping, burying the disappointment that he'd not seen that familiar face slack in serenity. 

Just _where_ was Crowley? Aziraphale could feel that he was close, in the general vicinity at least. Aziraphale had never been as good as Crowley at pinpointing the other's latitude, longitude, and altitude; but he made due and got close enough so it was often easy to sniff him out just fine.

"You know, Crowley," Aziraphale began again, slow and careful this time rather than the vexed of before. He hunched over just a tad and toed off his shoes so they'd not make any noise as he walked, and silently padded on looking for his errant demon companion. To any outside observer, such as the hundreds of generations of humans who often mistook them for very _special friends_ with various historical and cultural approximations of the modern knowing wink, it was very clear that by Companion, Aziraphale was simultaneously attempting to say "I've never seen this man before in my life" and "He's my best friend" while truly saying neither.

"Mr. Raffles’ live-in was rather nice—named Bunny, can you imagine that? Invited me for tea, even. Oh, I think you'd like them. So long as you weren't in a strop, they're rather witty.” _Like you, dear_ , thought Aziraphale to himself, it felt a bit too forward to say something so complimentary without being sure the demon in question wouldn't hear it. “Oh, listen to me talking as if you’re not acquainted. Have you met Mr Raffles and Mr Mander from a few floors down? They seem to know you well enough to point me in the right direction, at least…"

And yet, Crowley still did not answer, still did not appear! Aziraphale scowled, annoyed to have been so thwarted.

Perhaps he ought not to speak when he was meaning to sneak. It was a bit of a failure of Aziraphale's. He rather liked to blither and babble and blather and bl– well, he enjoyed all sorts of talking; inane was the name of the game! It was… comforting, especially when he had to pull on any sort of his cherub training, to know that he wasn't forced to rank and file and could talk as he liked. So, Aziraphale quieted himself down as he continued to search. His eyes widened in awe as he came across a room filled with all sorts of dormant plants. Or at least, he thought they were dormant, perhaps they were dead? 

Roses of Jericho came to mind, dried leafy things curled and shrivelled into balls, pulling their roots up and away and ready to move on to the next water source if only those pots would let them. Aziraphale liked them, they were the only sorts of plant he could reliably keep alive since they simply went dormant when not watered instead of dying, and the satisfaction of revitalizing it always made him think, perhaps, that he might be an alright angel sometimes. Before he remembered that the poor thing was like that because he'd forgotten it in the first place… 

But that's what it was, wasn't it? They ought to be watered and loved and ought to be treated with care, so Aziraphale didn't touch them, though his hands flexed with the desire to run his fingers over their brittle leaves and feel them come to life in his hands. It was a selfish want, he chastised himself, and pivoted on his heel out of the room. The thought of the plants all dead and withered, perhaps, pulled an unconscious bit of magic down from Heaven, imbuing the lot of them with a certain… preternatural tenacity even though Aziraphale had already turned away. That is to say, they might die plenty, but they'd certainly never snuff it permanently. The thought of a whole room dedicated to plants was simply too much, to let them all stay like that. It must be beautiful when green and bright. 

Then, out of the corner of his ear (the one situated on the left thirty-second point of his true form hidden in layers of fourth-dimension) he heard a very soft, very wheezy little snore. _Aha!_

On silent feet, Aziraphale followed the direction of the snores until he had retraced his steps all the way back to Crowley's living room.

In the center of the room, the wheezing snores seemed to come from all directions. Aziraphale shuffled back and forth, right to left, to pinpoint the sound before giving up and turning on a few of his hidden hearing points again. The next snoring noise had Aziraphale looking up sharply and strangling a laugh at the view of a skinny duke of limbs wrapped around himself, in near-impossible ways if he wasn't just as much snake as he was human (which is to say, not at all) up on the ceiling. 

He was tempted to let Crowley sleep a bit longer, if only to watch him snore, but it _had_ been a solid two years he'd gone without seeing the demon, and Aziraphale was… he was getting lonely, he supposed. Humans were all well and good, and he loved them of course! Exactly the way he ought, but Crowley _understood_ how it was, to be as old as the Earth and more, what it meant to have all those years locked up behind their eyes. As lovely as humans were, they just couldn't quite understand the magnitude of it…

That was his excuse, of course, when he stepped up onto the beautifully upholstered chair beside him and reached up to grab Crowley's foot, meaning to gently pull him down to the floor before waking him. 

Suddenly, and with a loud noise, Crowley recoiled without so much as hullo or anything (which was very rude, Aziraphale thought, and also didn't think about the rudeness of showing up unexpectedly) except that Aziraphale was still holding onto his foot. Now, Aziraphale hadn't been known for being disarmed easily, he had two of them and a rather strong grip, so one can imagine how difficult it might be to make him let go of anything, let alone a sword. A point to Crowley's favor in that he wasn't a sword at the moment, but it was no match for Aziraphale's solid hold on him.

With a girlish shriek Crowley began to fall and, midair, shifted into a snake as if it might be any harder to hold onto than a man. It wasn't, and Aziraphale was just a little too shocked by the proceedings to let go and allow Crowley to fall gracefully or manage any aplomb to land with. 

"Oh, my dear boy," Aziraphale said dumbly, holding the tail end of a snake near-about six feet in the air and looking down where Crowley had been just long enough to smack his head against the floor. "I hadn't meant to wake you."

This, they both knew, was a lie but Crowley was a little too stunned (in the way that fish or deer or dumb animals were stunned, with a blow to the head) to say anything about it.

Aziraphale decided to take his silence as forgiveness. 


	5. Dankin's Got No Solution For Stupidity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -1. East End, London, England 1941 AD
> 
> Thank you so _soM/em > much to cassie-oh, who I legitimately would not have finished this chapter without. Last chapter will hopefully be out Thursday next week, the burnout has been real, sorry y'all this was meant to have been finished by now._

Aziraphale's fingers trembled as he unlocked the door to his shop, pushing it open with shaking hands. He had so many things stirring inside him, feelings and thoughts swirling around, catching on his unnecessary organs and making his chest seize uncomfortably, until they became a maelstrom caged by his ribs. 

He looked over his shoulder to Crowley and grimaced at the way he leaned heavily against his car, door still open on the driver's side. He hadn't even stepped out further than it took for him to rest his arms on the top and peer over, watching Aziraphale. Worse somehow was how he didn't make any moves to join Aziraphale; that felt like a lead weight pulling at him, some emotion he couldn't place sank through the storm in his chest to his stomach in a viscerally human sort of discomfort.

"Are you coming in, then?" Aziraphale called softly, barely having to pitch his voice above a murmur for it to carry in the ungodly quiet of the night. 

Large glasses obscured his view of Crowley’s face more than any style he could remember Crowley wearing in the past. Even so, Crowley looked startled. Something about the buttoned suit and the hat, and perhaps even the pinstripes, along with the large glasses felt… closed off. Crowley had always hidden one thing or another, but usually it was to make humans more comfortable rather than to keep things from Aziraphale. At least, not for the last couple of millennia. 

It hurt a little, but Aziraphale mustered his courage to make a first move once again. Though, he thought to himself, could it really be considered the first move anymore after Crowley had made so many?

"Come along, Crowley, your feet must hurt."

"It'sss all right," Crowley hissed. Aziraphale thought he might have seen a hint of a too-thin tongue, forked at the end, but it was gone behind teeth in a flash. "I'm fine. 'Sss no worssse than beach sand on a hot day."

Aziraphale shot him an unamused look. "You and I both know how hot those can be. Come in, Crowley… please." 

Crowley hissed under his breath and let his forehead fall to his arms on top of the car before suddenly tensing and flinging himself away from the open door. As soon as he was around the car, he attempted a ginger sort of approximation of his usual saunter. 

Aziraphale nearly surged forward to help—like he might have decades ago, before their last fight—but held himself back, tense and silent on the top step of his stoop. Crowley made it to the bottom step. Aziraphale half expected him to hesitate, to gather his strength before attempting the ascent, but he pressed forward without pause. There was a sharp inhale as Crowley pulled himself up and Aziraphale could hold back no longer. Reaching out his hand, Aziraphale stepped down, hoping his face didn't give him away. 

(What, exactly, it might be giving away was another matter entirely. No matter the precise sentiment, Aziraphale was sure it would be too soft for Crowley, at least right now.) 

There was a tenuous moment, just before their hands met, in which Aziraphale didn't think they would at all. Crowley stared impassively (at what, he couldn't even begin to guess) and it took everything in Aziraphale not to simply reach further, wrap his hand around Crowley's wrist and haul him up to safety–to _Aziraphale's_ safety. But then Crowley took his hand (palm to palm in holy palmer's kiss, the words came unbidden in Aziraphale's thoughts), and Aziraphale was allowed to take the weight off his feet, at least somewhat. 

Slowly, Crowley made it up the steps. Now that it was clear Aziraphale had already known he was injured, he didn't bother to put on as much of a front, though his mouth still remained impressively neutral and the blasted sunglasses hid anything else from view. Aziraphale sighed at how his emotions felt like they were bouncing on walls, ricocheting this way and that until they collided with him again to trip him up. 

It wasn't just the books, not really, it wasn't even just tonight. They had a history, a long one that some (Heaven) might call sordid. But was it really? Yes, it was fraternization by the actual definition of the term, friendship across enemy lines and the like, but was that… could that be all of it? 

Simultaneously Aziraphale hoped so, and hoped not.

The warring desires ached in his chest. 

"You sit," Aziraphale murmured, leading Crowley to the armchair Aziraphale usually sat in rather than Crowley's couch. Not that, of course, it was _Crowley's_ couch, since it sat in Aziraphale’s shop and had been purchased using Aziraphale’s money (miracled, though it may be). It was only Crowley's couch in the sense that no one else had ever used it, not once in the century and a half since he’d opened his doors. Moreover, Crowley had never sat anywhere else (excepting, of course, the floor directly in front of the couch on the two occasions he’d been too drunk to aim correctly when returning to his seat after a session of impassioned pacing). So this was a bit of a departure from whatever might be called usual, and some small part hidden deep in Aziraphale rejoiced at whatever emotion he might wring from Crowley, even if it was simple confusion. 

"Angel?" Crowley rasped just as quietly as Aziraphale.

"Sit," Aziraphale said again, firmer this time, and Crowley did so. "I'll be right back." Turning on his heel, Aziraphale pulled his coat from his shoulders and hung it up along with his hat on the coat rack, his hand smoothing down the back out of habit. Then, he marched up to the half-neglected flat above his bookshop. The curved railing of the spiral staircase, smoothed from decades of touch at the bottom, quickly turned to the rough of freshly wrought iron was grounding, even as his nerves fluttered at leaving Crowley alone downstairs. He hadn't seen him for decades, nearly a whole century, and while that wasn't necessarily anything new it was… difficult. He supposed he'd become accustomed to seeing Crowley's face popping up every so often. 

Shaking these thoughts away, Aziraphale rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and started water heating in the kettle, both for tea and washing. While that was taking care of itself, as he bustled around, fetching a large wash basin and a few flannels along with a tin of beeswax and some Dankin’s (he’d kept some on hand ever since the Great War). Who knew what Crowley's feet were like at this point, but he feared the worst given how gingerly the demon had been moving. 

Supplies gathered, he made his way back downstairs. Crowley was still seated in the armchair and something in him settled at the sight. He smiled at Crowley and was pleased to receive a small twitch of the lips in return. 

The wash basin made a gentle thump when he set it down on the well-worn rug. He draped the flannels across Crowley’s knee to keep them off the ground and put the tin of beeswax flush against the side of the basin, the warm water would soften the wax into useability. Crowley sat stock still in an artful slouch, watching him work. 

“Could just miracle it,” he muttered when Aziraphale stood and turned back towards the stairs. 

Aziraphale hummed non-comitaly. Yes, he _could_ just miracle the basin filled with water at the perfect temperature. He knew the water would be mundane and harmless, and the miracle would register as a simple act of kindness for an injured soul. But, well, Crowley had been injured saving him and while Aziraphale didn’t necessarily think that castigating oneself was necessary for simple errors, he ached to demonstrate his appreciation and going about things the long way felt right. 

He took two trips upstairs, filling a smaller basin with cool water each time before carefully carrying it back down and adding it to the large basin. After the second time he added a generous measure of Dankin’s solution and swirled it around a bit. Crowley’s upper lip curled at the smell. Aziraphale understood, he didn’t have the fondest memories of its use himself. But, it really was the best option for helping Crowley’s feet remain healthy. 

The kettle began to shriek, so he wrapped it in a small towel and carried it down, adding it to the half-filled basin before going back upstairs and refilling it once again. 

Finally, second pot boiled and poured into the small basin which he’d set beside the larger one, Aziraphale kneeled on the floor and surveyed his gathered supplies. Clean water, flannels, medicine, bandages, and wax to seal them. He nodded, reaching out to shift the container of Dankin’s closer to the basin of hot water so it would warm as well. 

When he looked up at Crowley, the demon was staring at the medicine, his mouth a twisted line and his brows lowered behind the rim of his glasses. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come, so instead he reached out and took the flannels from Crowley’s knee and threw them over his shoulder. 

Crowley flinched back. A tiny movement, but everything else about the demon was unnaturally still. The storm in Aziraphale’s chest howled. 

He tried to paste a cheerful smile on his face, but feared he’d only made it to slightly gassy. Deciding to push past the awkwardness he reached for Crowley’s left foot, moving slowly so as not to startle the demon again. 

Crowley allowed him to lift the foot and made no noise of protest when Aziraphale touched the narrow laces. He looked up, wanting to ensure that this was alright, and discovered that Crowley’s head was tilted in such a way that Aziraphale could see behind his spectacles. Aziraphale’s breath caught in his chest. Crowley’s pupils were so narrow they were almost invisible and he’d lost control of the shape of his iris, the yellow bleeding out to fill every scrap of available space. 

He must be in intolerable pain, Aziraphale thought in dismay. 

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered into the silent bookshop. “May I–?”

Crowley responded with an odd creaking noise, another quicksilver flash of his forked tongue darting behind his teeth. He nodded once, a blade-sharp motion. 

Aziraphale removed the shoe as gently as he was able, peeling the thin sock away from Crowley’s foot and then pausing to take in the damage. 

Crowley’s foot was blackened and cracked, blazing hot and tight feeling in his hands. The worst damage was on the soles of his feet, but the inflamed skin still looked shiny and painful as far as the hem of his trousers. 

“I am so sor–”

“Blng,” Crowley interrupted. Aziraphale looked up at him. His cheeks were flushed a dark red and he was biting his lower lip. 

_Oh dear_ , Aziraphale thought, _he must be in a great deal more pain than I realized_. 

“You don’t need, I mean, we don’t.” Crowley released the clawed grip he had on the arm of the chair and ran it through his hair, mussing the carefully arranged strands into attractive disarray. “Angels don’t apologize to demons,” he finally managed. “S’not on.” 

Aziraphale gently lowered Crowley’s foot into the warm water, taking care to roll up the hem of his trousers to prevent it from getting wet. He reached for the second foot and picked it up. Rather than relaxing with the warmth, Crowley’s posture was, if at all possible, stiffer than it had been. 

Second shoe removed, Aziraphale set that foot in the water as well and picked up the first again. Then he took one of the flannels from his shoulder and dipped it in the basin with the hot water. 

“This might sting just a bit,” he said apologetically. Crowley didn’t respond. 

No matter, Aziraphale shifted his grip on Crowley’s foot and brought the flannel close. He pressed it to the worst part of the burn, but before he could begin to explain how he planned to address the injury, the world blinked, shifted, and suddenly Crowley was yanking a coiling tail back away from him. Every scrap of skin Aziraphale could see was cherry red and then it was black and shining as Crowley collapsed into a shuddering pile of scales and ribs. 

Aziraphale blinked at his empty hands and up at the snake. 

“Ah,” he said. “Can I interest you in a bath?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are very much loved and I promise I will answer all comments as soon as I can (unless you would like me not to)! I do ask that if you comment, please also take a moment to appreciate the art that very much began this story, without which this would not exist!
> 
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